


Keep Your Body Still

by glitterstim



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterstim/pseuds/glitterstim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren decides that if pain doesn't work on Poe Dameron, pleasure will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Body Still

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never like you  
> Uncomfortable too  
> This is starting to fuck with my head
> 
> All you know how to do is  
> Shake shake  
> Keep your body still, keep your body still
> 
> \- Don't Move, Phantogram

The interrogation cell the Stormtroopers march Poe Dameron into is bigger than he was expecting. The troopers proceed to rough him up some, which goes pretty much exactly how he was expecting. Poe isn’t the best hand-to-hand fighter, and they’re wearing armor, so mostly he takes up the defensive strategy of rolling into a ball on the ground and protecting his head.

It works okay: his torso is bruised as fuck and his head is bleeding again, but generally he’s felt worse. 

Poe really starts panicking when they bring in an interrogation droid.

“Meet your new best friend,” says one of the Stormtroopers accompanying it, and his companion chuckles.

“It’s probably a better conversationalist than you all have been,” Poe said, eyeing it. He gets hit for the crack, but that’s nothing new.

The IT-O is round and black and impeccably polished for maximum ominousness. Its chaperons manhandle him into what appears to be a torture rack, standing him up and shackling him in. It doesn’t make sense to fight -- a waste of energy -- but it’s hard not to. He lets himself go limp instead, a protest technique, and makes them deal with his dead weight.

He ends up strapped in, virtually immobile yet totally accessible, vulnerable. He hates this more than getting beat up by Stormtroopers, but he’ll probably hate it less than what’s about to happen.

The droid’s spindly arms emerge, one with a syringe. General Organa was familiar with Imperial interrogation techniques, so Poe knows what’s coming next, but the immobilization makes his heart race. He can’t _do_ anything here, can’t stop the needle from hitting his neck, can’t stop the BavaSix from flooding his bloodstream, can’t shoot anything, can’t run. 

As the truth serum kicks in, his vision goes double, blurry around the edges and then snapping into sharp relief every so often. It makes him dizzy and makes his head hurt even more. His mouth is dry. The rack becomes almost a relief because it holds him up, at least. He imagines he’d slide to the floor without it.

“Where did you hide the map?” the droid eventually says, voice a mechanical monotone.

“Alright, you’re not the scintillating discussion partner I'd hoped you'd be,” Poe says. He feels loose, like he’s had too much Corellian whiskey, but he’s certainly fought his way out of scraps drunk before. He can handle this.

“Please only discuss the map,” the IT-O says.

“You’re awfully polite.”

The droid tases him.

“Fuck!” 

The Stormtroopers laugh again. One says, “You look like you’re in good hands,” and they leave him there. He wonders how far the droid is programmed to go, if it could kill him.

“Where is the map to Luke Skywalker?” The droid’s tinny voice is shrill, too loud for his drugged ears to process.

Poe licks his chapped lips. “Go fuck yourself, little guy.”

The IT-O tases him.

Eventually, Poe passes out.

-

Poe’s still feeling the BavaSix in his veins and he has no idea how long he’s been alone in this cell. He’d had one ‘fresher break in between droid sessions, and he’s covered in electrical burns.

He’s learned he can withstand about seven electric shocks before blacking out.

His limbs are aching up with disuse, familiar from years of longhaul flights in a cramped cockpit, but he supposes he’s less injured than he could be. The blaster burn in his thigh hurts like hell, though.

The door whooshes open, rousing him from a half-doze. The boots on the floor behind him don’t sound like Stormtrooper steps. 

They aren’t -- the boots that step in front of him in a swirl of black cape belong to someone he’d like to see even less.

“Poe Dameron.” The voice is vaguely mechanical and ominous.

“Kylo Ren! Great to see you again,” Poe says, because being a dick’s been a winning strategy thus far. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Ren studies him silently for a long moment, and Poe fights the urge to fidget anxiously.

Ren finally snaps, “Report!” and the interrogation droid beeps at him. “No information has been extracted. Two doses of our most potent BavaSix compound have been administered, as well as numerous electroshock techniques. Subject has proven quite resistant up to fourth-level tactics.”

Poe can’t believe he’s only made it up to four. He hopes the scale is out of five. Or maybe even just four. Maybe he’s won. Maybe Kylo Ren will throw up his hands and let him go.

He almost smiles.

He feels like shit, and from his reflection in Ren’s mask, he looks it too. He grinds his teeth anxiously as Ren stares at him some more.

Ren has the theatrics down, walking slowly around Poe’s field of vision, being as non-threatening as a dude in a terror mask and a black cloak can ever hope to be while still being poised, still being dangerous. He wants to try out good cop first, it looks like.

It makes Poe incredibly nervous.

“You could make things easy on yourself,” Ren says finally, and even through the voice distortion Poe feels like there’s an unwanted familiarity when he speaks. “I don’t want to have to damage you beyond repair. A pilot of your caliber is...an asset.”

“I’m not really an easy guy,” Poe says, a beat too late. “Plus, I’d rather die than pilot for the First Order.”

Ren shrugs, making the fabric in his robes ripple. 

“It’s your choice, Dameron -- I’ll have the information from you soon enough.”

“I gotta say, you sound pretty cocky for a guy whose droid just failed to extract a single fact.”

“The droid’s techniques are merely childsplay,” Ren says, and there’s a note of smugness in his voice that makes Poe’s skin crawl. “Believe me, the main act won’t disappoint.”

“I’m not too worried about it,” Poe says, too fast and too defensive. 

“You should be,” Ren says. “Do you know the Force?”

This is what Poe feared. He knew the Force oncce, butterfly touches in his mind, levitating rocks. _Childsplay_ , he thinks, with a child who was killed by Kylo Ren himself.

Poe wonders if the Force will hurt him now, if the Dark Side makes it hurt.

Ren raises a hand and squeezes the air.

The choking is instantaneous, his windpipe crushing under an invisible Force that’s nothing like anything he’s felt before. Poe can feel his eyes bulging. Bruises bloom on the skin of his neck.

His lungs hurt, full of old CO2, and his nostrils flare open but can’t let air in _or_ out.

“I think you’ll agree it’s a rather unique experience.”

Poe Dameron knows what it’s like to be close to death, cracked ribs from too much G-force, air leaking from your cockpit. This, more than anything else, feels the most certain, the most fatal. 

His vision goes dark around the edges and if he had air he’d scream.

Ren drops his hand and air whooshes in and out of Poe’s lungs. His body burns with hypoxia and his fingers tingle. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, but he hears Ren chuckle.

“I told you you should be worried. I’m far more creative than our little torture droid.”

Poe is exhausted, slumping in his bonds. He says, “Yeah, I don’t know, the Force choke is kind of old hat. Very Imperial Republic.”

Ren’s arm shoots out and Poe’s choking again, desperate, abortive attempts at breathing the only sound in the room for a good twenty seconds.

The cool tone of voice is gone when Ren speaks, replaced by a hard edge. “You might learn to cultivate an appreciation for the classics. Now, where is the map?”

Poe can feel his body jerking -- he wants to have his hands at his neck to somehow ease the pressure, but he can’t move and he can’t breathe and he’s going to die in this shitty Star Destroyer, with this shitty Sith lord. Maybe, maybe he needs to die faster, before Ren gets any more creative.

“Hrk,” he says. 

The pressure around his neck goes tighter and his vision blacks out.

He’s barely conscious when Ren says, “The map, Dameron. Tell me about the map.”

The choking stops as effortlessly as it started. Poe tries to focus on breathing without hyperventilating -- he needs to take easy, steady breaths. His vision is clearing and Kylo Ren’s hands are black-gloved fists. 

“Is this like, a thing, for you?” Poe rasps. “Because I gotta say, I’m not that into it.”

Poe winces when Ren’s hand comes up again, this time in front of his face.

“Tell me where to find the map,” Ren snarls, and the pain starts.

It’s not like getting tased, except for how it slices right across his consciousness, knocking everything else out of his brain. 

He makes some kind of noise when it stops, hiccuping as he tries to breathe. His jaw hurts from grinding his teeth together and his face is damp.

“That wasn’t much better,” Poe finally says. “But it is new at least.”

The mask lines up with his face, pushes close as though to study him better. Poe blinks salt water out of his eyes -- tears and sweat. He wants to pull against the restraints, to squirm away, but he barely has anything left in his tank. He needs that energy to push back.

Kylo Ren straightens up in a fast movement, and Poe swallows, watching him warily. 

“What drew you to the resistance, Poe Dameron?”

“What?” Poe’s voice is hoarse and talking feels like having his throat scraped raw, but he can’t lose his voice now. It’s all he has. If Ren’s talking it means he’s not in Poe’s skull.

“Why turn your back on the rule of law?”

“That’s rich as hell, coming from the First Order’s pet Jedi.”

Kylo Ren’s hands flex and Poe feels a jolt of fear.

There’s a soft chuckle, weird and mechanical. “It’s strong, isn’t it? Your fear?”

“Fuck off,” Poe says. It’s not his strongest rejoinder, but these are dire times.

“You’d kill me now if you could, wouldn’t you? If we were in ships, you wouldn’t hesitate to blow mine up, would you?”

“You’re goddamn right.” Poe almost spits but he barely has enough saliva left to talk.

“Your anger,” Kylo Ren says, and then he pauses. “You must know I’m no Jedi.”

“Your robes suggest otherwise.”

“You think you’re so above the killing I do. You’re nothing but a terrorist, Poe Dameron, a murderer dressed up as a freedom fighter.”

Poe can feel the press into his mind as Kylo speaks, like the start of a migraine. He shudders when Ren pushes deeper, but not harder. He goes delicately this time.

It feels like slamming an elbow into something -- the bone deep _wrongness_ overwhelming him. He’s nauseated as it doesn’t fade out, just continues boring into him.

“Where is the map, Dameron?”

Poe does squirm, finally, writhing in his bonds away from this wrongness. It’s beyond pain -- it’s under his skin, crawling down the nerves in his forearms and snapping them like rubber bands. It makes his breathing shocky and his legs feel weak.

“Get the fuck out of my head,” Poe rasps. He’s trembling.

The pressure eases, less abrupt than the pain or the choking.

“Tell me about the map.”

“You don’t know shit about the Resistance.”

Ren stills completely.

“I know that General Organa was nothing but a traitor in her days in the Senate, and was a dissident when she served the New Republic. There’s blood on those hands you _adore_ so much, you rebel scum.”

Poe bites his lip before he can say anything rash -- what’s more blood on his face, anyway. Ren must have found something in his mind, must have found the General there. He tries to think of what else might get his attention.

“If you’re going to dig through my head, I at least want to see your ugly face.” Any distraction is a good a tactic as any.

There’s another distorted laugh.

“You wish to see my face?” Ren lifts a hand to the clasp on the side, releases it. “Why Poe, I didn’t know you still cared.”

He rips off the helmet and lets it fall to the floor, and -

it hurts like a punch in the gut.

Ben Organa’s grown into his nose, his hair is longer, his eyes are still wild and dark. He sneers, and that’s new, and so is that confidence and that _contempt_. He always wore his heart on his sleeve but all Poe can see now is unabashed heartlessness.

“I heard rumors...” Poe says it to himself, almost ignoring the alarm bells that say ‘shut up’ and ‘holy shit that’s Ben!’ and ‘why didn’t the General ever tell me’ and ‘he’s betrayed you and now he’s going to kill you.’ Everything is a klaxon in his head and he can’t even breathe through his nostrils to calm down; they’re clogged with dried blood.

“Did you?” Ren smiles, eyes cruel. _We were boys together_ , Poe thinks and wonders if that will make it hurt worse, now. 

He can’t even say it outloud, how much more this hurts than the Force ever could.

So he says, “You’re a lot taller than I remembered, Ben.”

Ben _laughs_ , and it’s crueler without the distortion of the mask. “Ben Organa is dead, Dameron. I killed him years ago.”

He rests a leather-gloved palm against Poe’s cheek, and he tries to jerk his head away but he can’t move at all, stilled by the Force thrumming in the room.

“Did you think of me often?” Ren whispers, face so close to Poe’s that he can feel his breath on his skin. The push into his thoughts starts again, deliberate and cruel. This time the pain comes again, like tiny bolts of lightning in his skull with each press through his consciousness.

Poe knows this is a weakness he can’t afford to show but he’s powerless, can feel Kylo Ren, Ben Organa, skimming his feelings right out of his chest.

“You did!” Ren hisses, triumphant. The hand on his cheek tightens a little, and Ren brushes his thumb against Poe’s bottom lip. It’s firm, not at all like the last time they touched, hesitant and strange.

Ren pulls back again, hand dropping away, and looks delighted, eyes gleaming and lips pulled back to bare his teeth in a smile.

“You really _did_ care.”

“Of course I cared!” Poe spits at him. “Ben was my friend! Seeing the General --”

“Don’t!” Ren says, delight turning into rage instantly. His smile turns into a snarl and his brows furrow, and his cape flutters behind him as he stalks across the room, pacing.

“She was heartbroken -” Poe can’t finish, because he’s choking again.

“To be a Jedi, you must cut out your own heart!” Kylo spits back at him “She sent me away to be turned into a monster! She has _no right_ to feel that way when she made me _this_.”

Kylo's hands curl, and Poe squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation. The choking, however, eases to just a soft pressure on his throat.

“Jedi must have no fear, no anger, and they also have no love. They’re worse than droids, who can form affection if they please. That is what the General,” and he sneers over her title, “the Princess, the royal highness of the Resistance, wanted me to become.”

The crush on his windpipe grows the more Kylo talks, the more his hands wave and his cape moves.

“She loved you!” Poe manages to rasp. He knows it in his bones that it’s true, that Kylo must be wrong.

“She loved a lot of things, but she loved me most as a puppet to use for the grand Republic. With Jedi on their side, who could oppose her and the other senators who stood with her?”

Kylo Ren stares, and then suddenly drops his hands to his sides. Air flows freely again.

“She was trying to keep _this_ from happening,” Poe pants. “A new Empire, some more tyrannical assholes thinking they can kill whoever they want, control what they want.”

“You’re both terrorists,” Ren spits, and Poe jerks in his restraints. He wants to punch him, _how could he say that,_ he’d seen, he’d heard what the Resistance fought against.

“You murdered civilians!” he counters, and Ren’s face is too wild, too unpredictable for Poe to get a handle on his own fear again. 

“Ah!” Poe groans as the pain hits, radiating from his head to his spine. It hurts down to his muscles, to his bones; he feels the press on his heart and his lungs and his guts. 

He jerks involuntarily, and when his eyes close he’s slapped across the face.

“You’ll look at me!” Ren snarls, and his hand balls into a fist, driving into his gut. Poe can’t even double over. 

The choking starts again.

Poe groans as all the air rushes out of his lungs, while the drilling in his mind continues. He feels like he’s being ripped apart cell by traitorous cell, each one dying on its own from lack of oxygen. 

He starts choking in earnest when Ren grabs his throat, the Force grip falling away. 

“Do you prefer this? The hands on approach? You were always good with your hands, Poe.”

Poe can feel each capillary break in his neck and the pain from every single wound he has is radiating through his body, hyperfocused and amplified. His leg is screaming, head throbbing.

“I’m no Jedi, Poe. This is what fuels me.” Ren leans in, increasing the pressure on Poe’s windpipe. Then he kisses him.

Poe can’t breathe, Poe can’t breathe, Poe is kissing Kylo Ren, the not-actually-dead Ben Organa, childhood friend, mass murderer, the man who is going to murder him.

His mouth is slack and open, and Kylo's teeth click against his own. Ren's tongue is slick, determined, warm, and familiar. When he pulls away, he's panting too, eyes darting all over Poe's face. 

“I could kill you easily,” Ren finally says, and everything stops except the hand on his neck, which loosens its hold.

Poe can’t do anything but suck air into his lungs and try not to cry, to completely lose his mind. He nods, eventually, throat hurting too much to make himself speak.

“You don’t seem afraid, when I say that.”

Poe really, really doesn’t want to die, but he’s always known he could. He lives his life in a cockpit -- nothing but thin layers of glass between him and the vacuum of space, hurtling his body toward as much danger as possible. Each hit his X-Wing takes is a step toward the void.

If it weren't assigned, he would have volunteered for this mission in a heartbeat.

Poe takes a deep breath and takes another one, says, “You’re not that intimidating, to be honest.” 

Rage lights up Kylo’s face, but then he laughs. It’s deeply, deeply unsettling, because it sounds so familiar, only lower and darker. There's a new cynicism there, scraping in his throat.

“Never responded well to threats, did you?” His tone is soft now, like he’s speaking to himself. The hand on his neck slides up to his cheek. 

“You don’t know shit about me.” 

“I know you always responded better to praise,” Ren muses. “You were always so... _responsive_.”

The way he stresses the last word makes Poe cringe. Ren rubs his bottom lip with a leather glove and Poe bites at it, catches the end of his finger with his teeth.

Ren hits him hard enough his vision blurs. 

Poe’s ears don’t quite stop ringing when his vision clears up, and all he can do is stare at the man in front of him. Kylo stares back, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed. He’s opened up the space between them.

“Maybe you’ll enjoy this,” he says, lips curled back. He raises his hand again.

Poe opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Kylo Ren pushes back into his head first.

It hurts differently now, but Poe can’t catalogue how as he grits his teeth and tries not to sob. It feels worse, wherever in his mind Kylo Ren is now. The blinding pain kept him from thinking before, but this is a deliberate press that he has to bear witness to. Ren is searching for something specific. Not a memory. 

A jerk of some unnameable feeling runs up his spine, into his neck, into the base of his brain, and he gags with it, hands curled into fists in the cuffs. 

The weird settles in his groin, and Poe suddenly knows what Ren’s found in his brain, where he’s digging, and it’s beyond memory and consciousness, it’s biology, reflexes, _arousal_.

“No,” he says, then again, louder, “No!”

Ren laughs. It’s short and ugly, metal against metal, and Poe groans.

“The Force is in every living thing,” Ren says, and Poe suddenly feels hot, flush all over like he’s been waiting for a lover to return to him. It’s the precipice of sweet anticipation, but there’s been no buildup, no teasing.

No lover.

“Tell me,” Ren says, and Poe knows he isn’t asking about the map. It’s beyond that now, the way Ren is inside of his body without even touching him.

“This is...certainly a step up from cheating at sabbac or Corellian Spike when we were kids.” Poe can barely get the words out because what he wants to do is moan, is thrust his hips. He can’t, though, he _won’t_ , but he’s so desperate.

Ren scowls but only for an instant, face smoothing out.

“I remembered some things, too,” Kylo says, voice low even for his normal basso. He steps closer again, and strokes Poe’s cheek, softly. A caress. 

Poe can’t help but moan, surprising himself with how wanton it sounds. But the touch feels so good, leather on his skin smooth and warm. He shakes with the effort of not leaning into it, of not nuzzling Kylo’s hand. The pleasure of contact sparks down his belly. His erection is full now, his cock heavy in his flightsuit. He’s flush with fever.

He bites his lip and clenches his jaw, hurts and wants in similar measures.

“This is much nicer, isn’t it?” Ren runs fingers around the shell of his ear, down the hinge of his jaw and to the soft, bruised skin of his neck. Poe shivers all over, jerks in his bonds. His stomach churns with how turned on he his -- he can’t even control his own dick here, that’s how bare Ren has stripped him.

The fingers brush back up again, the leather supple, and when they stroke under his chin the pressure increases, tilting his head up so they’re eye to eye.

Ren stares, gaze boring deep into the base animal part of his brain. Poe thinks, he’s still handsome, even twisted like this. Poe can also feel the violation at the base of his skull and he wants to scream, needs to come. His mouth tastes like blood. He has lost control of his ship and is spiraling somewhere horrible.

“Where’s the map?” Ren asks, softly. 

Poe laughs.

He gets hit -- expects the slap to the face -- but he can’t stop laughing, choking with it. It’s not a mirthful noise.

“What do you find so funny, you treasonous bastard?” Ren snarls, pacing again, agitated.

Poe gets another backhand and the way that feels -- good, really really fucking good -- sobers up the one tiny part of his brain that isn’t overwhelmed with lust. The fear is sharp and real again. Ren won’t even let him lose his mind.

Something shines in Ren’s eyes the second he realizes, and there’s a burst of horrible, not good at all pain in his brain as Ren rips information out of it lightning fast. 

Poe can’t even try to push him out; all he wants to do is rut and all of his energy is focused on not begging to get fucked, to get touched, not spilling out information in exchange for a slap to the face.

“I didn’t expect this,” Ren says, and slaps him again, lighter this time. An experiment.

Poe groans and his hips thrust, and he’s running out of control the longer Ren is in his brain. He needs to fuck so badly his whole body is thrumming with it. Moving his fingers across his own hands feels amazing, he’s so sensitive and needy.

Ren stares at him, considering, and then shakes his head. 

“It’s a pity I don’t have more time,” he says. “I could make something so beautiful with you. I could destroy you, piece by piece.”

“That sounds fucked up, man,” Poe says, words slurred. He feels out of his mind but his mouth keeps running, it seems, even if his voice sounds absolutely sex-wrecked.

Ren presses a hand against Poe’s crotch and he yelps. He can barely move in the straps but the amount of force in his hip thrust manages to budge the restraints, breaks open cuts at his wrists.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Ren coos the words, like a lover.

“Fuck,” he groans, and Ren’s gloved hand curls around the shape of his dick in the flight pants.

Ren moves his hand lightly, and Poe breaks apart.

“Please!” he moans, the word drawn out, and he can feel the precum drool out of his dick with just these light touches.

Poe stares at Kylo with wide eyes, slack mouth. He must look like he’s already been fucked, hard. He can feel the heat of the blush over his cheeks and neck. He knows he must present an explicit tableau but maybe it’ll be enough to get Ren out of his brain, or at least to fuck him.

“Tell me where the map is,” Ren growls, and jerks his hand away.

His hips keep thrusting into the air, desperate for friction. His hands keep opening and closing into fists, the only self stimulation he can manage.

“Why don’t you fuck me and then we can get back to the interrogation?” Poe tries to make it sound sexy but it doesn’t, and he hates himself. This is worse than the pain, because with that he could pray for death. This has already lasted hours, hasn’t it? Could he die from this? Ren probably won’t let him.

Kylo Ren stares, stunned, and then laughs. He looks delighted -- crazed, but delighted, teeth glinting bright in the harsh light of the room.

“I assumed it would take more effort to get you to debase yourself so thoroughly, pilot.” 

“You’re the one who touched my dick, buddy,” Poe says. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I have no intention of doing that again,” Ren says, making Poe’s heart drop. “I could leave you here, you know, writhing like this, alone.”

“I don’t think I can die of blue balls.” Poe feels like he might die of this razor’s edge of pleasure that’s rolled into pain back into pleasure again, but it’s been hours and he’s still alive, right?

Kylo presses fingers to Poe’s temple, which makes him moan again, and pushes further into his mind.

It’s more intense than being fucked, because there’s an end to being fucked. Even with other species, with anything, there’s a natural end for you and your partner. You climax.

This, this feels like an endless, horrible void of pleasure. Poe could fall in it forever, being wound tighter and tighter and tighter, harder and harder. Needier and needier. There’s no end to it.

Poe’s crying again.

He can’t feel his fingers; his whole body is just his cock, his hips, the emptiness in his mouth, in his ass, the way his tongue wants to be touched, used. The roar of sharp anticipatory pleasure doesn’t drown out shame that he needs anything, that he needs to be used right now.

“Let me in,” Kylo whispers, and Poe does, has to, even as his eyes clench tight as one last defense.

Ren is silent for a long interminable stretch. Poe can smell his sweat, the leather, his own need. He whimpers as he feels Ren twist in his mind, bites his own tongue. He wants desperately, his need throbbing in his temples with his own heartbeat.

“I never knew you felt so empty,” Ren whispers, finally. “I could help you.”

Ren’s voice, the soundwaves, crash into his ears with a sexual force he’s never felt. It’s like even his ear is getting fucked, and his shivers all over with each word.

“I could fill you up, Poe Dameron.” His lips pop on the word ‘up,’ making Poe tremble. Each word winds him tighter.

Kylo pushes in his mind, again, and Poe realizes he could. That he would. He knows intimately what Ben’s hands on his body feel like, but Kylo’s hands would be different, better even. Kylo knows what even he doesn’t want to know about himself. 

There are dark things pressed into his psyche: the feeling and _taste_ of those gloves on his tongue (his mouth waters), sounds of restraints opening and closing, the sounds of leather on his skin. The pain of stretching around what must be Kylo, unconcerned with his comfort. That pain is so good his squirms with it, hips banging against the cage of the torture device.

Bile rises up his throat, revulsion fighting with the deep aching need inside of him. He wants to beg for what he needs, what he could never want.

Ren smiles. “I could give you want you need.” His hand slides to the back of Poe’s neck and he squeezes. It doesn’t take the edge off but it soothes his tremors. He wants this, too?

Poe sobs, choked noises, and he thinks about space. The emptiest he could he feel, floating. He thinks about being dead, because that would be better than this unfinished horrible pleasure.

“Oh, Poe, that won’t do.” Kylo takes a hold of his hair, yanks his head back, and that, _that_ could make him come right there, if Ren would let him.

“Please don’t,” Poe whimpers, but he doesn’t mean stop.

“Where is the map?” Kylo growls in his ear, and Poe lets his voice bounce around his brain.  
He honestly doesn’t know what Kylo wants -- the only thing that exists now is the throb, the blood-heavy pulse of his dick, the emptiness in him, and Ren’s gloved fingers in his hair, pressing against his scalp, that pain-pleasure exploding in his body

“I need you to think of the map,” Kylo says and Poe thinks of space again, all the maps he’s ever seen, thinks of a supernova because he’s turning into one, so hot and so close to exploding. 

“Dammit!” Kylo drops his head, moves away from him. He raises his hand and suddenly everything is even hotter, harder, fuck, fuck, fuck. Kylo keeps moving back, toward the door and away from him.

“Please, please, fuck me, anything, please don’t leave!” Poe screams it, desperate, twisting and writhing. This pleasure hurts, his muscles ache and his dick is a deep throb of pain and--

\--suddenly everything stops.

His skin isn’t burning with a need to be touched. His brain is alone in his skull again. It’s a brand new horrifying agony.

Poe opens his eyes, stuck together with tears, and panics.

He thrashes, one last burst of desperate energy. His wrists start bleeding freely, the wound in his temple starts bleeding again. His nose drips blood as he shakes his head around. He opens his mouth and he wants to say something smart, cutting, but the only thing that comes out is a long animal howl. 

Poe finally stills, panting, and stares at his captor, who has not left him after all.

Kylo Ren is staring back. He’s flushed, pale skin full of blood, and he’s licking his lips. His wild animal eyes are wide open, dark. There’s something there that wants to rip him apart.

Poe is going to die.

It takes Poe four tries before he manages to coherently say, “Lost your nerve?”

He’s still hard, and now the shame is bright, right at the surface of his burned out brain. There's a new ache deep in his gut, the cavernous emptiness expanded.

Ren stares at him like he didn’t even hear the words. He steps closer, moves like a predator.

He presses a hand on Poe’s belly, slides it so he’s right over his dick, and he leans in again.

“Where is the map?” he asks, and he jerks Poe’s dick slowly over the fabric, then faster, relentless stimulation. That _want_ rushes back like a tidal wave, filling him up part way. But he's not totally gone, not anymore.

“Stop it, get the fuck off me,” Poe says, lust growing but crowded by fury and shame and adrenaline. His body can’t handle the stimuli.

The Force, Ren, is back in his brain, just one tendril of power driving straight to a goal.

“Release,” Kylo says, smiling, and Poe does.

It’s less pleasure and more like the opposite of all that built up need. It shocks his system, nerves firing all at once and limbs going rubber. Poe’s vision whites out. His brain is full of static, white noise, like right after getting shot. It’s nothing. It’s space, silent, cold, no sympathy or care.

He floats.

“The map,” a voice says to him, and he shakes his head, tries to curl into himself.

“No,” he says, thinks he says. “Not this too.”

His memory is nothing but sand now, white and empty, a vast desert for this voice to sift through.

“Skywalker really doesn’t deserve your loyalty,” it says, and that’s enough -- Luke is there, in this space, the man who knew his mother, his father, whose droid taught him how to fix part of his mother’s X-Wing, his droid, a desert, Luke Skywalker. Sand in his mouth. 

-

Poe wakes up.

Ren is sitting in a chair, watching him. He smiles, closed-mouthed. His dark eyes are satisfied, smug even.

“I’ve already dispatched troops to find your BB-8 unit on Jakku,” he says. “I thought you should know.”

He stands, and Poe’s entire body is stilled with a shove of Force power.

“There were easier ways to get that information, but I think we can both agree this was the most pleasurable.” Kylo leans over, almost looming, and kisses him softly on the mouth.

Poe whimpers.

Kylo pulls away and the grip on him is gone again, but Poe doesn’t have anything inside him left to say, to struggle with. He’s been scraped raw from the inside out.

“I’m going to enjoy exploring every inch of you, pilot,” Kylo Ren says. 

He picks his helmet up from the ground, shakes out his hair, and snaps it back into place. 

“Til later,” his mechanical voice says, and he leaves the cell.

When he’s alone, panic starts, maybe the only emotion he has left.

Poe Dameron knows deep in his bones that he isn’t going to die.

If he doesn’t escape soon, he knows, what will happen to him will be much, much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> welp, star wars has been the fandom of my heart for my whole life, and this is the first thing I write for it. typical. title is from [Don't Move by Phantogram](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2RlV6cteiA). many thanks to my beta Adelaide!


End file.
